You’ve just arrived in a swampy, dim town. As you look around, your gaze is met with shacks and cabins. It smells of rotted wood and wet moss. You duck and step into a tattered tent, illuminated by a series of candles suspended in the air. At the back of the tent, an old hag raises her head, “What brings you to this dingy town? she begins, then pauses to study your face—”Ah, it’s you. I’ve been expecting you. Sit,” she gestures at a cushion, “Tell me your story.”
Iris hesitantly sits down, her posture tense as she composes herself. Her dark brown eye narrows slightly as she studies the old hag. “Why would you like to know, ma’am?” she asks, her voice steady but with an edge of caution. She shifts uncomfortably on the cushion, glancing around the dimly lit tent. “I’ve been on the road for a long time. Trust doesn’t come easy.” Her mind races with memories of the past, the streets of her old province, and the perilous journey to this particular swamp. The silence stretches as she contemplates how much to reveal. “Let’s just say I’m looking for a fresh start, away from prying eyes and old ghosts.”
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